


Making Room

by redundant_angel



Series: Angst Bingo Prompts [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Misses Crowley (Good Omens), Depressed Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hopeful Ending, Introspection, Loneliness, Lonely Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26589445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redundant_angel/pseuds/redundant_angel
Summary: Crowley has been gone for months and Aziraphale begins to struggle with depression.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Angst Bingo Prompts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934245
Comments: 22
Kudos: 58
Collections: GO Angst Bingo 2020





	Making Room

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 1 of what will be an ongoing series of short stories based on angsty prompts from the Welcome to Hell discord sever!
> 
>   
> **Prompt: Time Loop**
> 
> For this prompt, I decided not to use an actual time loop, but instead to take a look at what it means to be have your routine reduced to the same thing, day after day, with no end in sight, and how it changes your perspective on the things that matter most. 💜
> 
> Welcome to 2020.

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open. Feeling slightly disoriented, the angel glanced at his pocket watch. It was a quarter to seven in the morning. He blinked, realization dawning that at some point during the night he must have drifted off while reading in his favorite chair. Slipping a bookmark between the open pages of his novel, Aziraphale set the book aside and headed towards the bookshop’s tiny kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. 

Falling asleep wasn’t so unusual for Aziraphale these days. The longer this year went on, the easier it seemed to simply forget to stay awake. The trouble was, he worried, that if it kept happening, he might one day forget to wake up at all. 

At half ten, Aziraphale opened his bookshop to the world. Curious customers trickled in, bringing sense of livelihood into an otherwise dreary day. He used to hate opening the shop. Now, it was a routine. Aziraphale no longer cared what books his customers selected; these days, he would part with just about anything. If it was on the shelves, it was fair game. 

“No sense in hanging on to these old things, angel,” Crowley had told him on more than one occasion. “You keep collecting and soon enough, you’ll have no room left and then what will you do?”

Aziraphale had always shrugged the comments off. He could always _make_ more room, if necessary. Pull it out of thin air if needed. Surely, there was something else Crowley was getting at.

“Perhaps, if I run out of space, I’ll endeavor to move in with you?” Aziraphale had replied with the ghost of a smile. He’d only meant it as a joke, but the look on Crowley’s face had been telling indeed. 

Perhaps moving in together wasn’t so absurd of an idea after all. Perhaps there was a tiny shred of hope behind those amber eyes that one day, Aziraphale would be willing to compromise; to part with some of these material objects to make room for something much more substantial. Something that assumed no physical space, yet would, without question encompass, his entire world. Aziraphale shared the same hope, but he didn’t know how to turn hope into reality.

These days, Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to care one way or the other about such trifles. These dusty books, having once been extensions of Aziraphale himself; of his very heart and soul, had lost all meaning. As he watched them sell and leave the shop, one by one, Aziraphale was surprised with how painless the process was.

After closing the shop for the day, Aziraphale made himself a new cup of tea and settled into his armchair once again. He glanced over at the telephone on his desk, telling himself he wouldn’t do this again. What was the sense in torturing himself? He knew Crowley wouldn’t answer. Still, even after all this time, Aziraphale couldn’t help it. This was his habit, now, his daily routine. He would pick up the phone, dial the number, and wait with bated breath as it rang on the other end. 

He dithered on whether to leave a message. He’d left nearly a hundred already, give or take. The calls were never returned. Although he’d gone centuries in the past without speaking to Crowley, now, all he could feel was the weight of an incredible loneliness, heavy on his shoulders, and it was only growing worse. The sound of Crowley’s voice on his answering machine would always be a source of solace.

“Hi, this is Anthony Crowley, you know what to do, do it with style.”

Aziraphale promptly hung up.

  
  
***  
  


The next morning, Aziraphale awoke to find he’d drifted off in his armchair once again. He glanced at his pocket watch: it was eight in the morning. Apparently sleeping late was becoming part of his routine now as well. With a weathered sigh, the angel placed his bookmark between the pages of his novel and headed towards the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. 

The tea had long gone cold by the time he finally closed the shop. He stared at the register. He’d sold twelve books that day, much the same as the day before, and the day before that. It would take a dreadfully long time to sell them all, perhaps forever. But no matter, Aziraphale had nothing but time on his hands. Perhaps by the time Crowley woke up from his nap, maybe, just maybe, there would be room enough in this place to let in something new. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> [Tumblr](https://redundant-angel.tumblr.com/)


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